Finished last night: The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip Dick. Caterina squealed enthusiastically about the book when we saw it at a garage sale last year some time, and it's sat on my shelf until this week. Or perhaps she loaned it, and I didn't give it back. Anyway, it was written in 1964, so I don't know what it sitting on my shelf for a few months has to do with anything. Except, I didn't necessarily trust Caterina's book recommendations. She never steered me wrong that I recall, and I always trusted they were good books—just not that I'd necessarily dig them. I was afraid of her highly sophisticated literary tastes. I ain't no college graduate. And stuff. Anyway, it was good. The book. Highly recommended. About drugs, and God, and telepathic jackals (just a little bit). I think perhaps I shall read more of this Dick character.